


Nailed to the Wall

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [27]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, Museums, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 08:40:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14712812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: “Shhhh,” Bucky says for the dozenth time. “If you’re that afraid of getting caught, you should probably keep your mouth shut, huh?”





	Nailed to the Wall

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: - take me to art museums and make out with me  
> \- but they said not to touch the masterpieces  
> Prompt from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator).

“Buck--”

“Shhhh,” Bucky says for the dozenth time. He shifts his hips, presses Steve up solid against the shadowed wall. “If you’re that afraid of getting caught, you should probably keep your mouth shut, huh?”

“I’m not--” Steve starts, but Bucky finishes, shoves his mouth against Steve’s again, deep, and knocks away words, sense, coherency. He always was a master at this, using his tongue to get Steve where he wanted him, to get Steve to see that being decent didn’t always mean being good. Making out in alleys was one thing, in dingy streets behind bars, or in the library, once, when Steve was being stubborn, when they’d had an argument over nothing, dirty socks in the floor or something, and he’d stayed out until almost closing time. 

At least then there hadn’t been many people around. Even back then, the stacks were hardly the place to be on a Saturday night. But now, there are folks everywhere, right around the corner, staring at the great works on the walls and not ready, Steve’s pretty damn sure, to see him pinned up against one, too, flushed and stuttering as Bucky kisses the life out of him, grinds up against him and makes him see nothing but stars.

There’s a portrait of him in here somewhere. Bucky, too. They’re upstairs on the third floor in the  _ 20th Century America _ section, in rooms that are quieter than this one. It’s the first place he’d dragged Buck when they stepped into the museum; he’d been anxious to get it over with, somebody’s idealized conceptions of them. The only faces of he and Bucky that most people would ever see.

“Well, Rogers,” Buck had said, turning from Steve to the portrait and back, “don’t you look pretty nailed to that wall.”

He’d given up his best leer, cartoonish, and Steve had punched him in the shoulder and cackled. “That’s it,” he’d said when he could breathe again, “I’m not letting you hang out with Stark anymore. He’s corrupted you.”

“Pfffft.” Bucky shot up his eyebrows. “I was a card-carrying letch long before Tony was born. Don’t you forget it.”

Steve laughed. “No, you weren’t. Come on, Buck. You were always a gentleman.”

Bucky snorted. “What? The hell I was. That’s nostalgia. That’s the patina of this place, all these good and solemn faces, talking. You’re not remembering right.” He’d sounded affronted, but he’d been smiling, too, and Steve hadn’t known how to take it, how to read him, so he’d held up his hands, made a show of taking a big step back.

“Ok, ok,” he’d said. “I take it back. You were never a gentleman, Buck. You were crass and downright craven and nice girls used to cross the street and cut their eyes whenever they saw you coming.”

Bucky had reached for him, chuckling, slung an arm solid through his and tugged him away from their portraits, aimed them back towards the stairs. “Yes, dear,” he’d said, faux patient, “Thank you dear.”

“You’re welcome.”

He’d leaned over as they hit the first-floor landing, his smile an inch from Steve’s ear. “I know you just conceded to shut me up, babe, but don’t worry, Stevie. I’ll set your memory straight.”

But in the crush of beauty that awaited them on the floors below, room after room of American faces, American artists, that Steve had never seen, never known, he’d forgotten all about it, Bucky’s promise. Which was why, probably, he’d been caught off guard when Buck had corned him in front of a John Singer Sargent and nudged him into the shadows, not two steps from the murmur of the crowd, the eager eyes of art lovers who surely, surely, aren’t looking to see Captain America with his fly open and his face hot and his love of two lifetimes grinning at each and every muffled groan.


End file.
